


The Sickest Kind of Miracle

by Trifoilum



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Aunt May Also Needs a Hug, Canon Compliant, Communication, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hot Chocolate, Past MJ/Peter, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Worth Issues, Set during the events of the movie, They Do Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 22:11:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17211770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trifoilum/pseuds/Trifoilum
Summary: He couldn’t even be a proper replacement for her dead nephew. How awful is that?





	The Sickest Kind of Miracle

**Author's Note:**

> CW : Self-loathing, so much self-loathing, gosh Peter you're a mess. Also, movie spoilers. This story is set around the time Miles' encountered the Prowler for the second time.  
> =====
> 
> So like most of y'all, I watched this and came out loving it.  
> The writing and editing are top-notch, but I do come out wishing we'd get more of Peter B. Parker; namely, his interaction with the Aunt May of Miles' world.  
> .....I ranted on Facebook for a while before realizing that I _do_ write fanfics. So.  
> It takes much longer than I expected and as usual the size bloated thrice, but well, be the change you want to see in the world, etc etc.
> 
> Do enjoy <3

There had always been a strange sort of tension whenever a planned attack across enemy territory was about to happen.

As far as Peter B. Parker was observing, everyone seemed to be affected all the same, with the difference being how each Spider-People (?) dealt with it. Peni swallowed candies and snacks like they were water. Gwen madly rapped the air in what seemed to be a drumming sequence. His noir self brooded in front of a potted flower, while his cartoon self…let’s not go there.

Ultimately, however, while Peni was busy building the new goober, everyone else headed out to patrol around this world’s New York.

Except him.

The erstwhile Spider-Man chose to stay outside Aunt May’s house, keeping watch ~~for Miles~~. Strangely enough, he wasn’t tired. Wish it was just good ol’ insomnia, or whatever temporal fuckery was happening to his cells, but nope. He just kept waiting and reflecting upon his failures until his wandering eyes noticed an unlocked window in the second floor.

Disc scratch, zoom in. Yes, it’s an unlocked window. What the hell, Aunt May.

He should have left it alone, or better yet, secured the lock, but a spark of curiosity decided it would be much simpler to do that _from the inside_. With the failed grace of a washed-out superhero, Peter sneaked inside and latched the rusty mechanism back to its place before he started wandering in the dark. This alternate universe home may have been built on the same spot but it was a completely different house built in a completely different neighborhood.

The little house was smaller and built much closer to its neighbors. With its wooden paneling and antique furnitures, flowery wallpapers around all sides and polished steel chandeliers above, this building looked like it was built much closer in time to his monochromatic counterpart. But that assumed this universe moved similarly in terms of aesthetics, which was something he ain’t gonna touch with a thirty foot pole anytime soon. Peter B. Parker is not an art historian, much less an alternate universe art historian.

~~He was just a failed piece of shit.~~

Nope. No. Anyway. The overabundance of windows might have been a pathetic compensation for the lack of privacy as much as it was an attempt to make the house looked less ~~like the bad horror movie MJ had the misfortune to participate that one time. God, she looked so sad in the funeral. If that’s how she’s gonna look if something happened to him, then clearly he was doing the right thing with the divorce, right? RIGHT? Where was his sweet vindication, dammit?~~

 _Aaanyway_. Peter continued down into the first floor, past the explosion of patterns that was the living room. The space was so small and yet he couldn’t find any signs of renovation. There were no strangely recent spots or new furniture to replace the ones shattered in a typical Spidey fight. A wooden cupboard was still filled with fine china, painted with a picture of a small cottage in a springtime prairie.

Don’t think about how lucky they were. Nope, he definitely thought about it. Damn, this world’s Peter Parker was so lucky, never having to fight a bunch of ninjas ambushing his home. But who the fuck was he kidding, of course he would be so damned competent in his job.

The more he thought about it, the more it made him angry. Peter had to grind his teeth down. Goddammit, reverse psychology! Stop thinking about pink elephants! You all lose The Game! All of you!

God, he’s old.

Warm, yellow light were glowing from one particular direction and his enhanced senses heard the unmistakable clinks of spoon hitting cup.

**_RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN_**

He didn’t have the tingles in the back of his skull, but damn if the urgency didn’t feel the same.

A voice called out to him before he could even turn around, kind and familiar and yet so very different from the one he used to hear. “Come here, Peter.”

He balled his hands into a tight fist, freezing and looking away from the light. It was nauseating. “I don’t think I should, Aunt May.”

A lilting laugh broke the silence. “Do entertain me.”

A fire was burning deep within Peter’s guts and somehow he wanted to laugh, scream, and cry at the same time. The prospect felt more daunting than facing all of his rogue’s gallery, or even the temporal shitstorm he was in. But—whatever. What-the-fucking-ever. After everything he had done to ~~his~~ Aunt May, he deserved anything and everything she was going to throw at him.

**_RUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUN_**

**_NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO_ **

Shut up. Face it, tiger, you just hit the motherfucking jackpot. Except he was being the exact opposite of a tiger. So, a kitten. An emaciated, soaking wet kitten. And it was scary.

This was not his Spider-sense; this was something a lot more human. Cowardice.

With squinted eyes, Peter slowly approached the light until he could see the kitchen. Pretty sure this universe has a different aesthetic trajectory, because the whole room was painted in some god-awful avocado that reminded him of too-raw guacamole.

“There you are,” said Aunt May. “Have a seat.”

He dragged one of the white kitchen chairs. A moment of _SHIT_ , and he immediately sat upright and tightened his stomach to make it look less paunchy.

The old woman was holding a white porcelain teacup that was indeed filled with tea. She didn’t wear a sleeping gown like his Aunt May used to. Instead, she was a vision clad in shades of gray. Her hair was a short, wavy bob instead of a neat bun that would drape across her shoulders if untangled. Replacing yesterday’s newspaper, a thin tablet sat on the white table, showing what looked like a news article from a distance.

Different as it was, the image still recalled vivid memories of ~~his~~ Aunt May, waiting for her nephew to return from whatever stupid excuses he managed to bullshit her with that day. She would sip her tea from a cheap ceramic mug. Peter would prefer to act as if every lie hurt, but truth was, after a while it had become second nature. Too much of a second nature, in fact.

A thin smile was etched on Aunt May’s lips. “Have everyone else returned?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Are you planning for a patrol yourself?” she asked.

“No,” he mumbled.

“Well. There’s an obstacle course in the basement if you also need a midnight workout before bed.”

He shook his head. “I’m good.” He felt like _shit_. “Why aren’t you in bed, Aunt May?” he asked before she could press further.

“Force of habit. Crime waits for no one, but it takes a lot to bypass an aunt’s intuition.” She let a tired chuckle.

God dang, alternate universe Peter Parker, why couldn’t you at least text her. “….You shouldn’t tire yourself out, Aunt May. It’s been a long day.”

“Please, Peter. If you think I can waste any second while the nephew I lost is standing right in front of me, then you’re sorely mistaken.”

May Parker have never been a weak woman, but there was a surprising sharpness in her gaze that stilled Peter. It was enough to make the middle-aged man shrunk like he was ten.

A vase in the corner of the kitchen was filled with a huge bouquet of flowers he knew by heart. White chrysanthemums: ~~his~~ Aunt May would bring these flowers every time they visited Uncle Ben’s grave, and Peter would bring a handful of them every time he visited her grave. He didn’t have to be a precog to imagine ~~this~~ Aunt May bringing the same flowers to her Peter Parker’s grave.

God, he should have taken a shower before. Pretty sure he looked worse than Norman Osborn’s arse. Smelled worse too, probably. And there was no other Spider-People to distract her under the warm glow of this room.

He couldn’t even be a proper replacement for her dead nephew. How awful is that?

“No, this is a mistake,” uttered Peter as he began to get up. “I’m sorry, Aunt May, I’ve got to go, I just can’t-“

“Peter.”

He stilled, and abruptly looked towards his aunt-from-another-universe, feeling his gut twisting when he noticed the gloom in her eyes.

“How did I die?”

Shit.

“…How do you know?”

Slowly, Aunt May tilted her head slightly to the right. Her short hair swayed accordingly. “The two of you are more similar than you thought. Unwilling to be vulnerable, the constant need to run away, the suddenness…”

The words drifted as her wrinkled hands placed both cup and saucer beside its paired teacup. Peter slumped back onto his seat. “Can we…not talk about this, Aunt May?”

He was not ready for this. He had no quips prepared for this.

“We don’t have much time, dear,” said the old woman before taking another sip. “Is it one of your enemies’ doing?”

Peter opened his mouth, closed it. Sighed, and sighed again. Uncomfortable silence reigned without any signs of stopping; if anything, her calm aura was honestly a little bit terrifying.

“Cancer,” he then blurted, immediately covering his treacherous mouth.

“Oh. That was….surprisingly peaceful.” Aunt May reached forward, offering a pair of wrinkled hands.

Peter backed away, and her face slightly crumpled. “You don’t understand, Aunt May.”

“It’s not your fault, dear," she said soothingly.

“Oh, it sure is.” He looked away. “I could have noticed what happened, could have done something before it’s too late. But guess what, this Peter Parker’s gonna spend his time moping around instead of being there for his family.”

“And you have done more than enough regardless,” she replied firmly.

“Have I?” hissed the Spider-Man, immediately reeling from the neverending reel of _what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck are you saying_. He shook his head a few times, refusing the direction this entire talk was heading, but his mind and mouth had different ideas. “I’m not your nephew. I have _not_ done enough. Not for this city, not for the world. Not for MJ. Not for you.”

His restrains fading, Peter started pounding his fist down, only stopping in shock after making a particularly hard blow that shook the entire table. Goddammit, Parker, you and your verbal diarrhea.

“I just—I don’t make good decisions like he did. I mean, this was petty, but everyone _grieved_ when Spider-Man died here.”

It was the truth. If he died in his world, Jonah would have thrown a celebration party and everyone would have come. Or maybe no one would care. It did seem like no one would care. Yep, no one would care. He would just fade away into the forgotten corners of history, another name in the too-long list of naïve morons with fatal delusions of grandeur. Peter B. Parker: keeping it real.

Peter collapsed into himself, resting his head on the flat, wooden surface. “I can’t even tell her,” he muttered. “Can you believe it? My aunt died without knowing her life is based on a big fat lie when there’s a different world where we could have built a freaking underground lab in the backyard _together_. And, by the way, there’s also another world where _Gwen freaking lives_.”

Gwen Stacy was literally out there, a legitimate Spider-Woman, still breathing and kicking asses with a kick-ass color scheme. That was the fucked-up cherry in this temporally fucked-up cake.

Peter did not cry—pride, useless pride—but the guttural noise he ended up making was probably worse. He had to run both gloved hands down his face to muffle the sound.

Second after second passed with no reply until he heard Aunt May stood. For just a second, he thought it was inevitable that she would walk away after all the mess he unceremoniously dumped onto her. Before his self-loathing could go any further, however, a loud rustling of metals cut the thought short.

When he looked up, the old woman was pouring a jug of milk into a stainless steel pan. There was strength and poise in her movement, but she also looked _tired_ in a way ~~his~~ Aunt May never looked like.

“Peter, you of all people should understand how deceiving a mask can be,” she said, placing the pan on top of an electric stove. A wooden spatula kept stirring the liquid gently. “There’s an ill-advised Christmas album I’d like to show you if you believed he never made any bad decisions.”

“The only Christmas content Spider-Man ever got in my world is twelve days of Jonah’s ‘editorials’, so, no offense, but I think he’s still doing a much better job,” said Peter, definitely not sulking.

Aunt May, bless her heart, tried her best not to sigh _too_ loud. “I know what it feels to think you can’t do or be what other people needs. But sometimes what we think they want us to be might not be the truth.”

“Easier said than done,” said Peter, staring at the flowers in the vase. “You’re the one with the secret laboratory.”

Okay, he was probably sulking a bit.

Aunt May, for her part, valiantly ignored his whining. “Mmmm. This might have been a case of the grass being greener on the other side, but I, for one, envied my other self’s ignorance. You see, the first time the Green Goblin clawed you across your torso, I had to compose one hell of a story involving a rampaging bear just so he could receive a proper medical care.”

What the hell, Norman. Her matter-of-fact tone only made it much worse.

“For each and every one of his enemies, there’s going to be at least one case where he almost didn’t make it. Each and every single time I wanted to tell him to quit and stop ripping my heart straight from my chest, but I can’t just do that, can I?”

Her words flowed out in a secret-like whisper Peter couldn’t give any answer to, at least before he noticed what all of these was about. “Wait a minute, is that bait?” he asked. “Oh my god, you’re baiting me, aren’t you?”

The look in Aunt May’s face flew way past confidence and landed straight on smug. “You always have a sharp mind, Peter.”

“And I should have known you would say that,” he mumbled to the table. “Again, Aunt May… I’m sure the Peter Parker here would have deep, heroic answer to your ethical conundrum, but I’m…not him."

“Maybe in the little details, but I’m not talking about him in the first place.” She banged the spatula a few times against the pan's edges. “It’s clear that _you_ see your life as full of burdens. The option to walk away is always there. But you didn’t take it. You keep fighting. Why?”

There were so many things Peter B. Parker could say, from snark to quips to postmodernist rambling, but it all would be false, mere fragments of the truth. The real answer was something he could no longer voice. He had not been worthy for that short sentence for a while, and probably would never be anymore.

So he sighed, buried his face to his hands, and said the second best answer. “That’s because the option is in truth a transaction. You get to feel semi-safe in New York and sleep undisturbed, but someone else’s gonna pay for that. And that someone else isn’t going to have spider powers to protect them.”

He told MJ this. She called him…nothing, actually. Despite the abundance of hurt between the two of them, MJ never blamed him _or_ Spider-Man. It would be so much better if she did, if they could just call each other awful names, but no, they just had to be adults about this. That sucked. Everything hurt and there was nowhere for the pain to go.

Peter didn’t even get to continue his tangent because Aunt May snuck on him. Thin, calloused hands tenderly traced the rough stubbles on his face before she pulled him into a gentle hug.

“You’ve been fighting it all alone, haven’t you?” she whispered. “All this time, and all this pain, and still you keep trying.”

All the air in his lungs came out in a trembling gasp. Her words caught him off guard, skinning every inch of his defenses until the only thing left was a rawness he could no longer deny.

“I’m so proud of you, Peter. Thank you for still being here.”

Peter raised his arms to hold Aunt May back. God, he was lonely. God, he was tired. All of this was temporary and none of this would solve anything in his life but Peter really couldn’t give a damn. This was the weirdest kind of dream and the sickest kind of miracle and somehow he was the one who received all of it.

He got to know that he was not the only Spider-Man in existence.

He got to see Gwen leaping and soaring in the air, strong and graceful and the exact opposite of helpless.

He got to see MJ again.

He got this.

Peter felt suffocated, like drowning, but it was the good kind of drowning for once. Like liquid gold, flowing between the cracks in his soul and sealing them. Warm. He kept the hold, trying to cling on for as long as possible until the tension in his neck became something he could no longer ignore.

When he pulled back, his breath came out sharp and winded. “Thank you, Aunt May…and sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Carefully, Aunt May raked her fingers across Peter’s greasy hair like it wasn’t disgusting as shit. “It’s already more than what I can ask, being able to say that to you one last time.”

Peter was the one smiling this time, sheepish and fond. “It’s a Christmas miracle.”

“Oh, dear, I think speaking with the dead is a whole different holiday,” chuckled Aunt May before tearing herself away, returning back to the pan.

Is it weird that they could banter about this sort of topic? Is it weird to feel pleased about it? Yep and definitely.

Carefully, she poured still-hot chocolate into a Spider-Man mug. There were more than two mugs prepared, so pretty sure everyone else was going to get warm tonight. Whipped cream and Spider-Man shaped marshmallows were piled until they were half as high as the red-and-blue mug itself.

Aunt May gently handed the mug to him, its warmth a blessed comfort to his cold bones. “Could you be a dear and check if the others have returned? I wouldn’t want to keep the cocoa abandoned for long” she asked.

“God, yes, that would just be tragic,” replied Peter with a grin. “I’m right here, you know. Pretty sure I can drink the whole thing—if I have to, I mean. You know, Spidey metabolism. Is that a thing?”

“Oh, Peter.” The old woman playfully pinched his cheek, giving a smile that reached the eyes as if she genuinely liked the sight she was seeing. “Finish your drink and go get yourself some shuteye. It’s a big day tomorrow.”

 _It’s a big day tomorrow_. Spoken with care and worry, tinged with just a little bit of pressure to emphasis the importance of sleeping properly, just like _his_ Aunt May. He just had to wonder if _this_ Aunt May spoke these words to _her_ Peter before his death.

 _It’s a big day tomorrow_. _Give it your all or the fragile thread of space-time continuum will unravel._

“I’ll try. Maybe after a shower.” Mug in hand, Peter stood and pretended to take a couple of steps towards the living room. “But before that-!”

He turned his body around his aunt-from-another-universe and leaned forward, giving her a couple of pecks on both her cheeks.

“G’night to my second favorite aunt! Love you, Aunt May!”

Spider-Man quickly leaped away at the sound of his aunt snickering, sounding a couple decades younger than the mumble-something number she actually was. He dashed across the ceiling, sipping hot chocolate, taking a special care not to let any single drop fall down to the genuine Persian rugs under him. He’d better head off to the lab and seek Peni; if she actually liked some of the candies she’d been wolfing down, she would love Aunt May’s hot chocolate. He knew he did.

Everything was sweet and cozy and Peter felt strangely free. It reminded him of a time when happiness just meant another trip to the local library, or the once-in-a-blue-moon occasions where Uncle Ben would secretly let him watch the TV after 9 PM. There were no bullies or villains, time travels or alternate universes, and spiders were just something to study about.

Of course, things were never that simple. His problems and failures would remain all the same despite what Aunt May had said to him. Santa and the Tooth Fairy were also a lie, although quantum physics apparently wasn’t. But—whatever. What-the-fucking-ever. They were still amazing things to remember, especially when tomorrow he was about to ~~sacrifice himself~~ fight for the integrity of the multiverse. Spectacular.

He might be able to sleep now if he tried, but that was for later.

For now, Peter just took another huge bite of whipped cream and marshmallows, savoring the sickeningly sweet combination of sugar and fat.

That was _great_.

**Author's Note:**

> *faints*
> 
> It was..interesting, writing Peter B. Parker. Quips are hard.  
> Also, special credit for [the movie's concept arts](https://masterclasses.iamag.co/the-art-of-spiderman-into-the-spider-verse/). They were so good.


End file.
